


It's Not Just the Sex

by moodymarshmallow



Series: Always Cloudy One-Shots and Side-Stories [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Always Cloudy, Anal Sex, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	It's Not Just the Sex

There's something about watching him in the kitchen that drives me crazy. Maybe it's the domestic bliss aspect of it, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee while he makes dinner for me, thinking about the fact that this is part of my life now, having a boyfriend, having a lover who's stuck with me and wants to take care of me in his own way. Maybe it's just watching him focus intensely on something that isn't me. Sometimes, when he's working, I just get this urge to spin his chair around and climb into it, not that I'd fit, it's a tiny fucking chair, but I want to anyway so I can push back his hair and chide him for not wearing his computer glasses, put my tongue on his lips and feel that heady, intoxicating spark when he parts them for me.   
  
He's not even cooking this time. There's something in the oven that won't be done for hours, and he's cleaning counter tops and dumping used coffee grounds into the garbage disposal. But he's wearing those soft cotton pants and my t-shirt with an apron over them, a fucking apron, and I'm so hard that it's awkward to sit. He does that thing where he glances at me through his hair, quick and skittish like a rabbit, and though he's more subtle than I've ever been, I know he's thinking the same thing that I am.   
  
When I join him in the kitchen, he glides his hands over my cheeks, back into my hair, and he's looking up at me with those pale eyes and just the hint of a smile. I slide my hands down his back and grab his ass, but I do it to lift him onto the counter so we're face to face. He gives me that look that says he wants to argue with me about being picked up, but he's too interested in kissing me instead, and he does, wrapping his legs around my waist and his arms under mine, clutching my shoulders.   
  
I love the way his body opens up for me; it always has, even on that first night when he was nothing but nervous anxiety and desperation, he was warm for me. He's said that he would rather forget that, but I think it's kind of special. You only get one first time, and the way he reacts now is the same way he reacted then: hungry and needy, and ready to give back whatever he takes.   
  
I tell him I want him, and he's coy, playing with the button on my jeans so he can brush his fingers over me and feel how hard I am for him. He says we should go back to the bedroom and I shake my head as I lean in to lick his ear. I tell him want him right here, right now, and that we've stumbled to the bedroom too many times when there are perfectly good surfaces all over the house.   
  
He laughs, and it's beautiful.   
  
It only takes a moment for his shirt--my shirt--and that apron to be on the floor, and I'm sucking lightly on his neck as I drag my fingers over the tattoos on his shoulders, up the arm that's around my neck, then back down again, stroking his sides. I let him pull himself off the counter and onto me as I tug down his pants and boxers. He kicks them off and I tug him to the very edge of the countertop so that when I drop to my knees, my mouth is level with his cock.   
  
He always yanks on my hair when I suck him off. I fucking love that. He's small, and he's so light that I can carry him around if I want to, but he's got strong hands and I don't think he has any idea how much I like when he's not afraid to hurt me.   
  
I know what he likes; I've been taking mental notes since we first touched. He wants my hands on his thighs when my tongue is on the underside of his cock, and he always wants my fingers inside of him when he's about to cum. I'm not giving it to him this time though, I just stroke his thighs until my mouth is full of salt and his legs are trembling. He's holding himself to my head and I wait until it passes. I love this part, looking up at him all flushed and damp with sweat, his lips parted, his eyes closed, his chest rising with deep, long breaths. When he lets me go and opens his eyes, he always looks like he wants to apologize, but I kiss him, and tell him how much I loved that, and how much I want to fuck him.   
  
The only problem with spontaneous sex is that I have to leave him there and trudge down to the bedroom for condoms and lube. He didn't like the idea of olive oil. I was joking, mostly. But I come back and he's waiting where I left him, leaning his elbows on the counter, relaxed, one eye hidden by his hair, but watching me just the same. He shifts a bit, spreading his legs further, leaning over more, and I know I'm going to dream about that little smile on his face, that little come-on when I get behind him and he rests his head on his arms.   
  
I don't take my clothes off. I can't really stand to do anything other than get him ready, and he's relaxed, so it's not taking as much time as it usually does. But he's still tight, and I have to use three fingers before I'm comfortable with the idea of my cock inside of him. He tells me I'm too cautious. I'm fine with being cautious for him.   
  
I guide myself in slow, watching him huff out a quiet groan, and I lightly stroke his back, feeling his shoulder blades moving under that beautiful tattoo. He slides his hands out from underneath himself and grips the end of the counter, and by the time I'm all the way inside of him, my hipbones pressing into his ass, the muscles in his arms are tense from how tight he's holding on. I give him time. I have all the time in the world for him.   
  
It doesn't last as long as I want it to--it never does. I have these fantasies of fucking him for hours, until we're sweaty and spent and can barely move, but the truth is, I'm just not able to hold myself back. We go slow sometimes, stopping to change positions or just to smile at one another, kiss, and catch our breath, but most of the time I feel like I'm a teenager again, too eager for my own good.   
  
I bend over him and kiss his shoulder, listening to him panting, feeling how slick with sweat he's gotten since I slid my cock into him. I ask him if he's okay, if he wants me to stop, and he pulls one arm back from the edge, resting his head on it as he shakes it.   
  
I tell him I love him when I'm about to cum, and it's just as true now as it is when he curls up next to me at night or when I  meet up with him at Corvus on break, and for a minute, when I'm spinning out and my body does that tense and release thing as I feel like I need to pump every last drop into him, I feel like it's not enough. I want to tell him that he means the world to me, that he's the best thing that ever happened to me, and that it's not just the sex, it's just that the sex makes me honest and unafraid.   
  
After we get cleaned up and dressed again, we curl up on the couch together, and I stroke his arm, his hair, his hip, anything close enough to put my hands on. I think he's going to fall asleep, but he doesn't, he just looks at me half-lidded before nuzzling up against my chin, kissing the underside of it, finding that damn scar again. I only ever like that scar when his lips are on it.   
  
"I love you like crazy, you know that?" he asks me, and I just smile, and kiss him on the top of the head. But I do know, because he's the reason I feel whole again, I just can't find the words to tell him that without sounding insane.   
  
"Me too," I say, because that's all I can manage, and he snakes his arm around my neck and kisses me, and I know it's more than enough.   



End file.
